


Kylux Ficlets

by callmelyss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aristotle - Freeform, Darth Tantrum and his Evil Space Ginger, Ficlets, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kylux Cantina, M/M, Praise Kink, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-03-21 23:37:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13751589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: Selected offerings from myKylux Cantinaparticipation and other Tumblr prompts.Will keep tags and updates reasonable, scout's honor.





	1. Please tell me you’re a hallucination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Contagion" from Apocalypse week.

Hux is almost certain he’s dying. 

The illness came on him swiftly, as it had the entire crew, reducing the _Finalizer_  to a floating sick ward in a matter of days. The medical droids have yet to identify the pathogen, let alone its proper treatment. As best as they can determine, it originated from one of six patrols returned from disparate systems in the last week.

When Hux figures out which of those incompetent wretches broke with the quarantine and containment protocols, he’s going to have them court-martialed, then executed. And executed again.

Then he’s going to kill the rest of their squad, assuming any of them are still among the living. Assuming he is.

He’s kicked himself free of the sheets again; both he and his bed are soaked with sweat. If the pattern continues, though, his teeth will resume chattering in the next ten minutes. His throat feels like it’s been blasted with sand, with the whole of Tatooine and fucking Jakku, too. His lungs ache; his bones ache _more_ , feel like they may splinter with his next round of shivering. When sleep--or likelier simple unconsciousness--takes him, he dreams of grasping hands, melting planets.

He jerks out of one such dream to find Kylo fucking Ren looming over his bed, a vulturelike specter of death if ever there was one.

“Please tell me you’re a hallucination,” he rasps. 

“No,” Ren says. Typical.

“Why the fuck aren’t you sick.”

“I’ve had this before.” Ren shrugs. When Hux glares at him, he adds: “A long time ago. I didn’t bring it to the _Finalizer_. Here, General, you need to drink this.”

He holds a mug of something absolutely vile-smelling out to Hux, who gags and turns his face away. “What _is_  that?” He dissolves into a coughing fit, his whole body wracked with spasms.

“Medicine,” Ren says. Impatient as ever. “You need to drink it,” he repeats.

Hux reaches out with one shaking hand, trying to grab the mug, but it slips from his grasp, saved from falling only by the virtue of the fucking Force, he knows. “I can’t,” he says, hating how weak he sounds, when Ren offers him the mug again. 

The Knight makes a frustrated noise and then he’s climbing over Hux and into his bed, as if enough indignities haven’t been heaped on both the past two days. Ren tugs him into his arms, pausing when Hux starts coughing again, if anything holds him a little tighter until it passes.

If he _wasn’t_  feverish, Hux might have a thought about Ren in his bed with him while he’s practically naked (except for a pair of shorts). But he’s too busy listening to his teeth rattle in his skull as he shivers.

“Here.” Ren is sort of curled around him, propping him up against his broad chest. He holds the mug up to Hux’s lips. “Better if it’s quick.”

It’s even nastier than it smells and grotesquely viscous; he almost chokes on it, almost coughs it up. Ren holds him through his shuddering, saying _shhhshhshh_  and dragging one hand down his side repeatedly, almost like he’s…

Is he _petting_  him?

_I really am delirious_ , Hux thinks.

“Water--please,” he croaks when his nausea has more or less subsided. He scrabbles at his bedside table. There was a glass and pitcher there, he thinks. The droid refilled it the last time it came through.

Ren holds the water for him the way he did the medicine until Hux snatches the glass away, snapping, “I can do it.” He takes a long drink, nearly draining it. 

He’s starting to feel--something. His throat hurts less anyway, and he’s no longer shaking. A deep weariness is settling over him, though.

“You need to sleep now,” Ren tells him. “It’ll be a day or so until you’re well. I’ll…give the droids the materials to synthesize a cure for the crew. Maybe an aerosol. We can run it through the circulation.”

He climbs out of the bed. Takes a moment to draw the covers up. 

“Ren,” Hux murmurs before he can leave. “Where were you?”

“Told you,” Ren says. “I’ve had this before. I--went to get the cure.”

“For us?” _For me?_ He absolutely will not ask, although _he_ probably hears it anyway, bloody mindreader.

“Of course,” Ren says. Sounding surprised. 

“Um. Thank you.” Hux closes his eyes, but he can feel Ren watching him before he drifts off. There’s a moment, too, when he thinks someone might be smoothing down his hair. Lips press against his forehead. Probably he’s dreaming again.

“Get some rest, Hux,” Ren tells him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, kids, when it comes to sick people in space, _be like Ripley._


	2. What’s in it for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "offering something in return for shelter" from Apocalypse week.

 

It takes Kylo two days to reach the distress signal. His own escape pod crashed deep in the woods. He doesn’t know if Hux is luckier to have landed farther up in the mountains. He doesn’t know if Hux made it at all–-he _senses_  that he has, but that might be wishful thinking. They had a rough exit from the _Finalizer_. Shouldn’t have gotten separated, but it happened.

He’s filthy, exhausted, and dehydrated by the time he reaches the outcropping of rock where he’s tracked the pod’s signal. Doesn’t know if the water’s safe. Doesn’t remember when he ate last. May also be concussed from the landing. Can barely trudge up the hill. He’s fully expecting to find Hux in a worse state, half-conscious probably, and Kylo doesn’t know if he’ll be able to do for both of them, weak as he is. He’ll have to, he thinks.

As he reaches the crest of the hill, he comes to a dazed halt. He’s not sure what he’s seeing. There’s no pod, for one thing, not intact anyway. It’s in pieces–has been carefully dissected by the look of it. Part of the hull seems to be serving as a sort of lean-to, further sheltered from the wind by a large swath of the released parachute. The interior electronics are spread across the clearing, organized, he can only guess, by type or purpose, some of them obviously rewired to make something else. To the right, a small fire is smoking–the pod’s small port window propped above it on two rocks. He can smell food cooking.

A rustling noise behind him shakes Kylo out of his bemusement and he whirls, reaching for the lightsaber at his waist.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Hux says, coming up the hill. As though he was expecting him. He’s carrying what looks like a makeshift bucket, fashioned from spare parts and sloshing with water. “Not the most accessible camp, I know, but there is that old truism about the high ground and–-”

He comes to a halt next to Kylo, who can only stare. Yes, he’s sporting two days worth of very un-Hux-like stubble. His hair’s a bit wild, wind-tousled. He’s ditched half of his uniform, too, wearing only his undershirt, uniform pants, and boots as he works. But alive. Uninjured. Apparently undeterred by their current situation.

“You’re…you’re all right,” he stammers.

“Of course, I’m all right,” Hux snaps. “Are _you_  all right? Because frankly, Ren, you look awful.” He walks back into camp, sighing as he sets down the bucket.

Kylo follows, a bit dumbly. 

“Here,” Hux says, offering him a cup of water. “I tested it; it’s safe enough.”

He gulps all of it, scrubs his hand over the back of his mouth when he’s finished. “Tested it with _what_?”

“The kit I keep in my coat. Basic survival supplies.”

“In your  _coat_?”

Hux scowls. “Of course. Did you think I’m completely unprepared for a crisis? Not all of us have the Force to fall back on. Not that it looks like it’s helped you all that much. Here, sit.”

Kylo allows himself to be led over to the fire and settles down as directed. Hux throws something over his shoulders. A silvery emergency blanket.

“You honestly thought you’d find me a quivering mess, didn’t you? Helpless without you–-begging for your assistance, offering whatever I had in exchange for your protection, swooning at your generosity?” He hunkers down next to the fire, prodding at the pot of whatever’s cooking. Maybe porridge. It looks like porridge.

“I…” Kylo says. At a loss. “Maybe a little.”

Hux continues, unfazed. How is he so unfazed? “Perhaps I should be asking _you_  what you can offer. Big waste of resources like you. Not sure you’re worth the trouble.”

He hands him a little container of porridge. Lifts one edge of the blanket, maneuvers himself under that and Kylo’s arm, almost simultaneously. Arranges himself against his side, sneaking his left leg under Kylo’s right. He exhales, the tension going out of his shoulders. Starts to eat, elbowing Kylo until he does the same.

They sit in companionable silence then, in isolation at the top of an untouched world, the wind singing over them. “I’m glad you made it, idiot,” Hux murmurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, Hux's coat might be a little like the TARDIS.


	3. Every Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt "Atelophobia -- fear of not being good enough, the fear of imperfection" from Secrets week.
> 
> Explicit content.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Kylo groans as Hux sinks onto him, knees spread wide, head thrown back, spine arched. Not clenching so much as just spasming around his cock. “So fucking perfect,” he says and mouths at the hollow of his throat. Licking the sweat pooled there. 

Hux slides up and almost off before grinding down again. His own erection: red, leaking, bobbing. “Again,” he moans. “Please, Ren.” Already wrecked. His eyes shine–-wet and clear, clear blue. His legs are trembling against Kylo’s.

“ _Perfect_ ,” he insists and thrusts up and into him, meeting his descent this time. “So perfect, Hux. So good, riding my dick.”

That becomes the rhythm and the litany, Hux fucking himself open, steady, as Kylo says again and again, _good boy, perfect, excellent, yes, Hux, good, good, no one can take it like you, fuck, fucking gorgeous_ ,  _so good, yes, perfect_. To which Hux answers, voice all fissures,  _please, please, tell me again, fuck, please, Ren, please_. 

Kylo’s blood is roaring in his ears by the time he comes, hips stuttering, and he barely has to touch Hux, murmurs one last _perfect_ in his ear as he strokes him and the general slumps against him with a sob, face buried against his shoulder while he twitches through his release.

Later, they’re curled together in that brief interlude before Hux leaves for his own quarters, when Kylo is allowed to pet him between his shoulder blades as they both recover. But he, forgetting himself, not meaning to, lets slip, “so, so fucking good,” into Hux’s hair far too long after the fact. Feels him tense under his hand. The wash of his disbelief, powerful. Immediate. Unshakeable.

“Mm, well,” Hux says. Sitting up. Already reaching for his clothing. “Thanks for the stress relief, Ren.”

Kylo sighs, watching him go.

 _You know I meant it._  


	4. Sacrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Soft Kylux Tuesday, prompt from @samedifference61: "Oooh, I’d love some soft, secret touching. Maybe one guiding the other by the small of their back..."

The first time it happens, they’re both on the bridge: Hux overseeing maneuvers, Ren doing…whatever Ren does when he isn’t damaging Hux’s ship or stalking dramatically down its corridors. Brooding probably.

Hux normally wouldn’t be standing there with his arms folded, but this squadron is a _mess._

Not to mention he’s trying to avoid the sizable bruise on his lower back where Ren may or may not have bent him over his desk yesterday.

He almost jumps out of his boots when he feels the first cautious brush of fingertips there, just around the edge of where he’s tender.

“Does this hurt?” Ren asks. Not menacing. Curious, even through the mask.

“ _What do you think you’re doing?_ ” Hux hisses in an undertone.

“Stop panicking. They can’t see,” Ren rumbles. _Amused_. 

It becomes a favored spot for him after that, especially when they’re standing side by side: monitoring an operation, reviewing a report, addressing the troops. Once during a particularly fraught meeting with the admiralty, all of them berating Hux–-his job to stand at attention and take it. He’s not even sure why Ren’s there, except Ren is _always_  there lately, looming in his space more than usual _._ And _touching_  him.  

The sweeping cut of his robe hides the gesture now, that pressure just at the base of Hux’s spine. Not hesitant this time. Sure. Maybe even calming-–comforting--as seems to be intended by the soft stroke of Ren’s thumb, although Hux would never admit it, even under torture. 

He does not lean into it, not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be (very gradually!) catching up on these.


	5. Any fool could see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Soft Kylux Tuesday, prompt from @h3llcat: "Ren bonds with Millie when he thinks Hux isn’t looking."

It’s not like Hux to be late, even for something as off the schedule as an assignation with Ren. Nonetheless, here he is in the General’s quarters, alone.

He supposes he should be grateful he’s allowed that much, entry in Hux’s absence, instead of being made to lurk in the corridor.

Probably it’s just for the sake of appearances.

He sits on the uncomfortable blue sofa for a moment. Stands. Sits again. Stands. Paces the small room. When he sits a fourth—or seventh—time, there’s a little ginger cat perched at the other end of it, watching him.

“Um, hello,” Ren says. Extending his hand for her to inspect. He knew Hux had a cat, although she’s always been shut in the ‘fresher when he was here before. Unimpressed, she saunters away.

He does _not_ go early the next time Hux summons him. He’s the Master of the Knights of Ren. He would never sprawl on his stomach across the floor of Hux’s bedroom, drumming his fingers while the same cat watches him, again unmoved, from under the bed.

She does the same from the top of Hux’s closet and from the highest shelf of his bookcase. “Have it your way,” Ren tells her after his fourth attempt. Annoyed he feels at all rejected by a _cat_.

It’s only when he’s slouched on that ugly sofa a week later—training going nowhere, _another_  fight with Hux, Snoke’s disapproval reverberating in his bones—that he feels the first brush of a paw on his arm.

Hux’s cat is sitting right next to him. Kneading him under the ragged edge of his cloak. 

Ren holds very still when she climbs into his lap.

He doesn’t know why he tries to keep it a secret from Hux: how he always arrives an hour early now, sits, waiting for the cat— _Millicent_ , he’s learned via careful snooping—to settle. Stroking her ginger fur.

Of course, it doesn’t last. Of course, he doesn’t _mean_  to fall asleep. Only he’s just gotten back from a mission and Hux asked to see him.

He wakes to the sensation of someone tucking his hair behind his ear. The General’s leaning over him, that sort of guarded-but-fond look on his face. Millicent is still in his lap, and, Ren’s horror, his embarrassment, must show, because Hux chuckles.

“Ren,” he says. Shakes his head. Yes, very fond now. “You’ve been covered in cat hair _for weeks_.”


	6. As Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Soft Kylux Tuesday, prompt from @persephassax: "One of them walks in on the other reading up on history/galactic philosophy. Do they make fun? Are the reluctantly impressed?"

Hux reads everywhere. 

It’s beyond common knowledge; it’s an incontrovertible fact. No one gets to where Hux is at his age without being an irredeemable workaholic, without reading comm messages in bed and technical manuals over breakfast, without studying position papers and field reports during lunch (and how does he never spill?), without falling asleep on a pile of schematics and neglected dinner plates in his office every other night.

Perhaps it shouldn’t feel…revelatory…then for Kylo to find Hux reading in his bed, in _Kylo’s_ bed, reclined against the pillows, hair sticking up at the back of his head, pale skin in sharp contrast with the inky sheets. And no, not so strange to find him reading, even here, except it’s one of Kylo’s books—heavy, ancient, made of real paper—propped open against his thighs.

“Oh, sorry,” Hux says, catching sight of him in the ‘fresher doorway, where Kylo feels almost paralyzed, staring. “It was on your nightstand.”

It’s an esoteric text Snoke gave him. Not written about the Force, exactly, or the Jedi, but tangentially related to the same, to the balance of impulses within the individual and the corresponding energies of the universe, how they meet and interact. The essentialism of their matter and its movement. Already old when it was translated into High Galactic, the civilization that birthed it long forgotten.

“I. Didn’t know you could—” Maybe that’s no surprise either, although he assumed Hux’s education focused rather more on deadly weapons construction and troop formations than fussy, dead languages.

“Just a bit,” he says. Shrugs. “My stepmother— But probably not enough to make much sense of this, I’ll admit.”

The words fly out before he can snatch them back: “I could read it. To you. Um. If you want.”

Hux blinks. He’s not wearing a stitch of clothing, sheet slipped low on his hips, although he doesn’t seem to care. Normally he would be gone already, but he’s still here, looking at Kylo like he’s a particularly troublesome flowchart.

“I—” he says finally. “I’d like that.”

Kylo’s a bit dazed as he slides in next to him, more so when Hux shifts, making room for him, settling against his shoulder, head tilted towards his. He hands Kylo the book, and it’s never felt so solid, so _weighty_ , as it does before he begins to read, haltingly at first, then more confidently:  

“Regarding this kind of substance, what we have said must be taken as sufficient. All thinkers make the first principles contraries: as in natural things, so also in the case of unchangeable substances…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Kylo's reading Aristotle in High Galactic, because I am a giant nerd.


	7. At Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Soft Kylux Tuesday, prompt from @imochan: "waking up together for the first time"

Hux comes awake slow, almost grudging, as he never does; his feet usually hit the floor the moment his alarm (often unnecessary) begins to sound. Today, he drifts back into consciousness, muzzy, languid. Thinking he may have _dreamed_ , of all things, and also that he doesn’t want to open his eyes.

It’s because he’s _warm_ , he realizes. When he nearly always wakes up a little chilled, no matter how many blankets he piles on, how many layers he adds, as he has since he was a child. But this morning, there’s a long, sturdy line of heat pressed against his back and— _oh_.

Ren is in his bed. His arm curled around Hux. Big nose pressed into the soft hair at his nape. One leg slotted between both of his.

A mistake, certainly, to have invited him back to his quarters when their previous interactions have been more than adequate. True, they’ve gotten…creative about the locations of late (although the blow jobs exchanged in the training room were rather inspired). It seemed safer, maybe…but no, that was no excuse. Hux should know better, Hux _does_  know better, but here he is anyway, tangled up with Ren like—like that means something.

He feels fucking  _trapped_ , pulse rabbiting now, but maybe he can escape without waking him, if he’s careful. He tries inching forward, but the arm draped over his middle tightens not at all subtly and draws him back, flush with that absurdly sculpted chest. Ren grumbles against his second vertebra: “Stop that.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hux says. As if playing stupid with him is ever at all effective.

The bastard fucking  _pokes_ him in the back of the head. “That. I’m trying to sleep.”

“Apologies for disturbing you, my _liege_ ,” Hux sneers. Trying to wiggle away again. “But I have to get to the bridge.”

“Mmph,” Ren says. Nips him just under his ear. A warning. His other arm slides under Hux’s ribs, and there’s nothing else to call it—he’s _holding_  him and how dare he. “You do not. You’re on second shift today.”

“There are reports—”

“No.”

“But I—”

“ _No._ ” Ren shifts, dragging Hux onto his back now so that he’s more than halfway pinned. His dark hair hangs around his face, Snoke’s apprentice, this supposed shade of Darth Vader with fucking _bed head_  and it’s ridiculous, especially with the way he’s scowling, bleary-eyed, annoyed. 

Even more so when he leans down to kiss Hux—soft, lazy, heedless of his stale breath, cradling his face. 

Although they haven’t. Yet. Not really. 

 _Stars_ , Hux thinks. And also: _Shit_.


	8. You, Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Soft Kylux Tuesday, prompt from @orangebutterfly13: "Hux wears glasses, but only secretly in his quarters. Nobody knows that, because he hates them."

“Please don’t touch those,” Hux says, automatically, coming back into the room. He’s carrying two glasses of brandy.

It’s still new and strange and terribly fragile, whatever’s going on between them, so Kylo sets the little metal frames back on Hux’s desk with a _click._  Accepts the offered drink (although he hates brandy). 

The evening turns toward other things. 

 

 

“Don’t you need them?” Kylo asks, a few weeks later. Hux is at his desk, wearing the glasses, reading something on his holoscreen. With Starkiller postponed (lack of funds), he’s been doing more of that, reviewing proposals, taking meetings.

He blinks at him from behind the square lenses, and damned if that isn’t…well… _sweet_  almost. 

“Not as such, no,” Hux says. Taking them off to look at _him_  now, like Kylo’s become an unknown quantity again. “Only when my eyes are tired.” 

 

 

“They, uh. They suit you,” Kylo tells him. They’re in Hux’s bed, Hux reading, as usual, something about their diplomatic status with the Republic. Kylo halfway curled in his lap, cheek pressed against the soft skin of his stomach. Hux’s hand in his hair. 

The glasses slip down his nose a little when Hux peers down at him, and it’s all Kylo can do not to fix them for him.

“That’s a strange thing to say.” 

 

 

He’s developed a habit, probably an unfortunate one, of kissing the small depressions on either side of Hux’s nose, the ones left by the frames. 

As unfortunate, maybe, as the endearments that seem to drop out of him at random now. _Darling_  feels especially damning. _Love,_ he’s been spared so far.

Somehow, he thinks, it’s the glasses. The way they make Hux’s face look. Not younger—if anything, he looks a little older—but more human. And his.

It’s Hux, too. He’s changed, an ease in him Kylo’s never seen before.

 

 

“Here,” Hux is saying. Hands Kylo a flute of something effervescent. They’re celebrating the armistice; the negotiations went well. No need to finish the weapon, no need for any of it. He’s wearing the glasses, has been more since transferring to become a technologist. 

He lets Kylo gently lift them off before he kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, as it became: How Hux's Glasses Saved the Galaxy.


End file.
